


Clint Barton: Avenger, human trainwreck, babysitter.

by ataxophilia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baby Avengers, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Nothing but Sickly Sweet Fluff, clint is not a lucky man, no literally just kid fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1502870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint pauses, glancing across at the five toddlers still staring up at him. "The, uh, the other Avengers may currently be, um. Small children?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint Barton: Avenger, human trainwreck, babysitter.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically all Cass' fault. She also made sure it was all coherent and halfway decent, because she's the best.
> 
> This is saved as Baby 'Vengers on my laptop. I's literally pure, self-indulgent fluff. As Cass puts it: 'There's not a reason at all that they're babies and I DONT CARE ITS TOO CUTE'.

It's a Thursday — obviously, because Clint has always had issues with Thursdays, they're nasty, pointless days — and one of those mornings where Clint's body has finally caught up with itself and forced him to sleep for hours, so he wakes up groggy, with a crick in his neck and a dry mouth. The sunlight streaming in through the curtains he was too tired to shut the night before seems unnaturally bright. Clint knows it's irrational to think that a ball of burning gas is trying to spite him, but it sure feels that way.

He's in Stark's tower — the Avengers HQ now, as Stark points out, a little petulantly, whenever anyone calls it Stark's tower — which is unusual, for him. The other Avengers have all moved in, more or less — Bruce practically straight away, for the labs; Steve after that whole shit-storm with the Winter Soldier; Nat a few weeks after that, with no explanation; Thor crashes whenever he's on Earth and not with his lady friend at SHIELD.

But Clint has Bed-Stuy, and an apartment building full of tenants who, for some reason he cannot quite comprehend, all seem to expect Clint to be able to fix their shit when it breaks. Which, okay, would make sense if they hadn't been living in the same building as him for a while now, because he's an Avenger and also a landlord — but they have, and they all know him, now, so they know he's mostly a walking, talking, human trainwreck. Clint's got a life outside the tower, and outside the Avengers, even if Kate and Nat and Tony all insist otherwise. He _does_. He's got a dog and everything.

Despite that, because Clint's luck is clearly non-existent now, it's a Thursday morning, and Clint is still mostly asleep and uncomfortably thirsty when he eventually wanders into one of Tony's many kitchens.

And, because he is still mostly asleep and uncomfortably thirsty, he doesn't see the baby curled up just under the table until it makes a loud, incoherent noise that could be, "Clint," or could be, "What the fuck am I doing under this table?" which is Clint's first question.

"Jesus fuck— What's a baby doing under Stark's table?"

It's possible that living with a dog has given him an unhealthy predilection towards talking to himself, but the only person in the room to see it is the baby, who just burbles happily back at him.

"No, really," Clint replies. "What are you doing in here?"

He has to pause for a moment at that to wonder why, exactly, he's talking to this kid like it can talk back.

Then he has to pause a little longer, and consider the kid's dark hair, grey eyes, and oversized — way, way oversized — ACDC t-shirt.

"Well, shit." He crouches down so he's on the kid's eye level. "Are you one of Stark's? Like, did the genius actually knock some poor girl up?" His face cracks into a grin. "Man, Stark is so not gonna be happy about that. You wanna come with me to break the news to him?" The baby coos and makes grabby-hand motions in Clint's general direction. Clint takes that as a yes, and leans forward to pick it up.

The last time Clint held a baby was in the middle of an op in Brno, when SHIELD's safe house was in the middle of a busy street full of bustling Czech families. A delay in his extraction, for reasons deemed too important for Clint to be told about, meant Clint spent three weeks there, in which time a truly terrifying woman with three toddlers and two twin baby girls roped him into helping with chores.

Thanks to that Czech mother, Clint more or less knows where to put his hands to keep the baby from breaking its own spine. The kid makes more baby-noises at him when he straightens up, hands latching onto the front of Clint's top. It's almost cute.

"Okay, little— man? Lady? Aww, kid, don't make me check." The baby, predictably, doesn't say anything that could be interpreted as an answer to Clint's question, so Clint sighs and lifts the top. "Little man. Alright. Well, baby — are you actually a baby? You seem kinda big to be a baby. What comes after baby?" He narrows his eyes. The kid gurgles something and stares back with big, unconcerned eyes. "You a toddler, little man? Uh. Guess it'll have to do."

One of Stark's robots whirrs over to them when they walk into Tony's lab, cutting Clint's ramble off. Baby-toddler reaches for it, but Clint has seen that thing in action, and he knows there are lasers hidden away in its claws, so he tucks the kid's arms out of the way. "Rule number one, kid — robots are dangerous. Especially ones Stark makes."

The kid's burbling sounds a little disappointed after that, but he doesn't try and touch anything else in the lab as Clint wanders around it, so Clint doesn't feel too bad. He's not sure whether Tony will actually want the kid, but he's pretty certain he won't want it incinerated or vaporised or lasered by anything in his lab either.

"Okay," Clint says, once they've checked the whole lab, dragging the word out. "Tony's not in his lab. Where should we check next, kid? Bedroom?" The kid gives him another wide-eyed, solemn look, and bashes one pudgy fist against Clint's cheek. "Yeah, I know, I don't wanna risk seeing Stark naked, either, but that's my next best guess."

The baby shoves his fist into his mouth and grins around it, baring his gums up at Clint. "See? I knew you'd see reason. You're a smart kid." Clint adjusts his grip a little and heads back out into the corridor, chattering away. The baby doesn't really seem to understand him, but he's more responsive than Lucky, so Clint doesn't mind. "Reckon you need a name, though. I can't keep calling you 'kid'. Well, I could, but it's not really the best name, is it? Might not want me to choose a new one, though. I called my dog 'Pizza Dog'. Even I can tell that's not a great name. Better than—"

He trails off when another shout rings out in the corridor, cutting through the baby-toddler's steady stream of baby-talk. "You got a brother, kid?" he asks the baby in his arms, turning slowly on the spot to pinpoint the source of the second cry.

There's another baby-toddler-kid sat by the elevator. Unlike the baby in Clint's arm, this one has a shock of messy white-blonde hair falling into his eyes, which are a bright, cornflower blue.

Clint pauses, blinking. "You know, I really don't think you're Tony's kid," he tells the blonde baby.

Blonde-baby makes a series of noises that sound vaguely angry. His forehead furrows and the corners of his lips pull down into the baby-equivalent of a frown.

Clint is self-aware enough to admit that it's all fucking kinds of adorable.

"You got a name, Blondie?" The kid doesn't say anything, but he does start pushing himself upright. "Hey, whoa, careful there!" Clint pulls ACDC-baby a little tighter against his side and starts forward to grab hold of the other kid.

Blondie is on his feet by the time Clint reaches him, but he teeters a little before latching onto Clint's jeans. Clint stares down at him, and he stares right back, blue eyes unblinking. A terrible thought slips into Clint's mind. "You're not mine, are you?"

The blonde kid blinks slowly and tightens his grip on Clint's leg, and it's then that Clint notices what he's wearing. Like ACDC-kid's ACDC shirt, it's a stupidly oversized top. It also looks scarily like one of the white t-shirts Steve wears constantly.

An even worse thought clicks into place.

Clint looks down at ACDC-kid. The ACDC top also looks worryingly familiar.

"JARVIS?"

The AI answers almost immediately. "Agent Barton?"

ACDC-kid lets go of Clint again to clap delightedly and gargle at the air above his head.

"Can you, uh, tell me the locations of the others? Like, is that something you could do?"

Blondie looks a little confused by the disembodied voice talking to them. Clint decides he's the saner of the two kids.

"Of course."

"Right." ACDC lurches forward as though trying to grab something. Clint reels him back in carefully. "Could you do that, then? Er, now? Tell me where Tony is?"

There's a beat of silence, and then JARVIS reports, "He's currently in the corridor outside his labs with you, Agent."

ACDC burbles happily again. Clint blinks down at him, and then shifts his gaze to Blondie. "Right. And Steve?"

Another pause, and then, "Also in the corridor with you, Agent."

"Okay." Clint stares at Blondie. Blondie stares back at him. "You can see us, right, JARVIS?"

"I have access to the camera footage of your current location, yes."

Clint swallows down a nervous laugh, and nods. "Okay, so, uh, could you just— JARVIS, are Tony and Steve, uh— are they kids? Like, literally kids? Right now?"

JARVIS pauses again. Clint gets the distinct feeling that if JARVIS was actually human he'd be clearing his throat. "I believe they are, Agent Barton."

"Well." Clint looks slowly between the two toddlers. "Shit."

ACDC — _Tony_ — makes another happy noise and whacks his fist against Clint's shoulder before squirming alarmingly. Clint's so busy trying to take in JARVIS's news that he almost drops him, but his reflexes kick in just before Tony loses his balance. The look Tony gives him when he pulls him a little closer again is full of disdain — Clint almost laughs at that because it's such a Tony look that he can't believe he didn't leap straight to this conclusion — that he bends automatically to put him down.

And then he takes two steps back and just _stares_ at the two kids.

"Shit," he repeats.

Now that he's looking, he can almost see his teammates in the two toddlers. Facial features, colourings, expressions. While he's watching, Tony prods Steve in the ribs, and Steve shoves at his shoulder in retaliation. Tony's eyes narrow — so, _so_ Tony — and he slams his foot into Steve's shin in a truly vicious kick.

Steve's little face comes alive with anger. Clint starts forward and sweeps them both up into his arms before the situation escalates into a proper fight. "If either of you cries," he tells them both, in the same tone of voice he uses when Lucky eats day-old pizza and slinks around the apartment like he's trying to find the best place to vomit, "I will lock you in Nat's room and let her deal with you—"

He's starting to get a little sick of the awful ideas popping up in his head.

"JARVIS, can you confirm the others' statuses?" Steve wriggles against Clint's side, and he hoists him a little higher on his hip. "Yeah, yeah, fingers crossed, kid," he mutters, absently, waiting for JARVIS to speak up again.

It's not good news.

"Agent Romanoff and Misters Banner and Odinson are currently in the same— incapacitated state as Misters Stark and Rogers."

Tony burbles a little more and jabs his finger into the crook of Clint's neck. Steve makes another confused noise.

Clint sighs heavily. "This is so not my day," he tells the kids, sadly, and then tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Where are the others, JARVIS?"

"Agent Romanoff is in the range three floors above us. Misters Banner and Odinson are both in the kitchen two floors down. I suggest collecting Agent Romanoff first, Agent Barton. She has found a gun."

"Of course she has. Thanks, JARVIS."

"You're welcome, Agent Barton."

Clint would be the first to admit that he's not exactly babysitter material. Honestly, if it came down to it, he thinks the only Avenger who would be worse at the job than him would be Tony, and he's not even sure about that. If Tony had sufficient motivation to do a good job, he'd probably be an amazing babysitter.

So, all things considered, it seems more than a little unfair that Clint is the only member of the team still adult-sized.

It also seems more than a little likely that this whole situation will end in a disaster, but Clint really doesn't feel up to thinking that far ahead.

"Alright," he says, looking between Tony and Steve with what he hopes is a stern look on his face. "We need to go find the others. If I put you two down, will you behave yourselves?"

He's not sure how much of what he's saying the two of them actually understand, but Steve returns his look solemnly and Tony jams his fist back into his mouth and grins again. Clint sighs. "Good enough." He lowers them both carefully to the floor, waits a moment to make sure World War Three doesn't break out, and then starts making his way towards the elevator.

Both kids scurry after him and catch hold of his jeans, one of either side of him. Tony keeps his fist in his mouth, but laughs around it when the elevator door slide open. Steve watches everything with wide eyes. Neither of them cries, and neither of them tries to hit the other.

It is the closest Clint has had to a victory since he woke up.

"Three floors up," he mutters, jabbing the appropriate button. "God, Tasha, if you've accidentally killed yourself, I will murder you."

Tony seems completely unconcerned by the movement of the lift, but Steve huddles closer to Clint, both hands gripping Clint's jeans tightly. He looks up when Clint rests his hand on the top of his head, and Clint takes in the wobbling lip and the red eyes.

"Oh, no, no, _no_ , Steve, c'mon." He twists and ducks down so he can pull Steve up into his arms, ignoring the disgruntled noise Tony makes when the movement dislodges his grip on Clint, but it's too little, too late. By the time the elevator pulls to a stop, Steve is bawling loudly, face pressed into Clint's neck.

Steve's fingers clutch at Clint's top as they step out. Clint catches hold of Tony's huge t-shirt and pulls him out of the way of the doors, and then focuses his attention on Steve, who is still full-on crying. He's yelling something between each long, desperate sob — it takes Clint a beat or two, but eventually he recognises the name, "Bucky," only a little mangled by baby-speech.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Clint shifts Steve's weight until it's over his hip again, and rubs his hand awkwardly over Steve's spine. "C'mon, c'mon, Steve, it's alright, it's alright. We're not even in the elevator anymore, see? We're back in the corridor. You're alright, c'mon."

It isn't Clint's most reassuring speech, but it seems to work, at least a little. Steve's sobs gentle into hiccups, and he pulls his head away from Clint to blink up at him. Clint smiles. He hopes it's a calming smile, but he's so tense that it probably looks more like a grimace. "See? You're good. Everything's good."

Steve blinks, then frowns. "Bucky?" he repeats. Clint just about manages to hide his wince.

"Bucky isn't here right now, Steve." Steve's face crumples again, so Clint adds, quickly, "But you're gonna find him soon, I promise. As soon as you're, uh, big again."

It seems a little wrong to lie to Captain America, especially when he's all of two and a half feet tall, but since it averts another crying fit, Clint can't bring himself to feel too awful about it.

"There we go," Clint murmurs, when Steve smiles a little uncertainly. "Alright." He lets Steve down again, and hooks his fingers through the neckline of Tony's shirt to keep him from wandering any further away. "Let's go find Nat."

But Tony stamps down hard on Clint's foot before they can get anywhere — which, fucking _ow_ , Clint isn't wearing shoes — and races off down the corridor. Clint lets loose a stream of furious curses in various different languages, trying not to look too closely at Steve's baby-face, and starts after Tony.

And then, finally, Clint catches a break: a blur of black material and red hair shoots out of a door and slams into Tony.

Tony stumbles back two steps, falls, and burst into tears, because Clint's luck obviously can't last more than a few seconds. A little girl who looks like Clint imagine baby-Natasha must have looked like stands in front of him, frowning. Clint feels like it's reasonable to assume she's Natasha, but he calls her name out, just in case.

She snaps her head up to stare at him, and then she kicks Stark's leg, so, yeah, it's Natasha.

Clint looks down at Steve, who looks more than a little bit awed. "She's gonna kick me, too, if I try to pick her up, isn't she?" He sighs. "Natasha? Nat, can you— we need to go downstairs. Will you come downstairs with us?" Natasha's eyes flick up and down him, considering, and then she toddles over to him.

Clint cocks his head slightly, one eyebrow quirking, then shrugs. "Tony, get your ass over here. Or, uh, your butt." He pauses. "Is that any better? Oh for— Tony, heel!"

Tony eyes Natasha suspiciously as he slinks back over to Clint's side, so Clint nudges her over to stand next to Steve, careful to keep his own body between Tony and the other two. He crouches down and catches Tony by the shoulders. "I'm pretty sure you're not old enough to be running around, but I'm gonna let that slide. You're a freaky genius kid. Maybe that means you develop motor skills early, too. Whatever. Not the point." He pauses, frowning. "The point is, you can't run off without me, okay? Do it again, and I'll send Natasha after you."

Natasha grins so wickedly that even Clint is a little scared. Tony's gaze slips between Clint and Natasha, and then he nods, a sulky expression already forming on his face. Clint's pretty sure that'll escalate later, but for now he's more concerned about finding Thor and Bruce, and getting all the kids somewhere safe. He can deal with Tony's tantrums then.

All four of them make it to the lift without any more fights or tears, but Clint pauses before he presses the call button. "Steve, buddy, you okay with the elevator?" He really doesn't fancy trying to herd the three of them down five flights of stairs, but he doesn't want to freak Steve out again. Not when Steve has, so far, been the best behaved Avenger.

Steve's lips wobble slightly as he looks up at the lift, but then Natasha slips her hand into his, and he visibly stands a little straighter. Clint's shoulders slump with relief, and he calls the lift. Natasha holds onto Steve's hand for the whole ride, even when Steve grips so hard his knuckles turn white, and Clint really wishes he'd picked up his phone before leaving his room. A photo like that would make the internet go crazy.

Thankfully, Bruce and Thor are both still in the kitchen JARVIS suggested when Clint arrives. They even look relatively happy, gurgling away at each other. Thor's leaning back against Mjolnir. Bruce's hair is a mess of curls. They both turn to blink at Clint when he pushes the door open.

"Oh, thank god," Clint breathes, and then steps out of the way so Tony, Steve and Natasha can pile into the room. He shuts the door behind them, then strides over to the door that leads to the balcony — fucking Tony Stark — and makes sure it's locked.

He really doesn't want any of his teammates to go toppling over the edge of a balcony. The media shitstorm alone would kill him.

"Alright." He presses his forehead briefly to the glass, then twists on his heels to survey the rest of his team. Five pairs of baby-eyes stare back at him. "I am so not the right person for this."

He scans across the room, hoping some kind of coping strategy will leap out at him, and catches sight of Bruce's phone, lying on the kitchen table. "Help," he breathes, and leaps forward to grab it.

Clint has a whole list of numbers memorised, but most of them are for the other people in this room, or numbers that come in handy on ops. There's only one that might actually be helpful to call, so he types it in as fast as he can and presses dial, fingers drumming against the table as he waits for it to connect.

As soon as it does, he blurts, "Katie, I need your help."

There's a pause. "Clint?" Kate sighs. "You know, most people start with 'hello'."

"Hello?" Clint tries, hopefully.

Kate sighs again. The amount of disgust in the noise is incredible.

"What do you need my help with?"

"Shouldn't you say hi back?"

"Don't think I won't hang up on you."

"No!" Clint yelps. Then he pauses, glancing across at the five toddlers still staring up at him. "The, uh, the other Avengers may currently be, um. Small children?"

"Small— what?" Clint can practically hear Kate rubbing her forehead. "Clint, did you turn your teammates into kids?"

"What? No. Why would you assume it's my fault? No, I just— wait, shit, Tony, don't fucking touch that—"

Tony whips around, hands out in front of him, a sheepish expression on his face. "The fucking oven, Katie, he's trying to turn the oven on," Clint explains, before marching over to stand between Tony and the hob. "It's like he has a death wish. I didn't even know babies could have death wishes. Have you ever met a baby with a death wish?"

"Clint," Katie repeats. "Why is Tony a baby?"

"Uh." Clint fixes Tony with a sharp glare as Tony tries to slip past him to get at the oven again. "The Avengers are all little kids, I told you."

Kate makes a frustrated noise and asks, "But _why_ are they little kids?" Clint almost misses the question because Natasha reaches out, grabs a handful of Thor's hair and tugs, hard.

"I don't know, Katie, I woke up and they were like— this."

Thor bellows, and while it isn't quite as intimidating as when he's six foot plus pure muscle, it's still a pretty impressive noise. Mjolnir is, thankfully, out of play, but baby Thor doesn't need a hammer, apparently.

No, baby Thor just launches himself at Natasha.

Clint drops the phone and catches hold of the back of Thor's top — also oversized — before he can connect. Thor's legs literally pinwheel beneath him as Clint hoists him up. It would be adorable, except Clint knows that if he lets go, Thor and Natasha will, most likely, murder each other.

"No," he snaps. Thor's legs stop moving. Clint glares at each of the kids in turn. "No more fighting. This whole mess is stressful enough without you guys making it worse. Either you all start playing nice, or so fucking help me, I will call Hill and see if she's got a bunch of holding cells I can lock you all in."

The kids go silent. Tony stops trying to edge past Clint. Natasha almost looks sorry.

"We clear?" Clint asks, and they all nod. "Good." He deposits Thor on the floor and picks Bruce's phone back up. "Sorry, Katie-Kate. What were you saying?"

Kate's cough sounds suspiciously like it might have started life as a laugh.

"Nice parenting skills," she says. Clint flushes a little, rubbing the back of his head.

"Yeah, yeah." Thor's back to playing with Bruce. Natasha and Steve are whispering together — Clint's really not sure that's okay, but nobody is fighting, so he's not getting involved. Tony's found a whisk to take apart. Clint is fairly certain this peace won't last long. "Listen, can you help me?"

Kate snorts. "I'm a teenager, Clint. The hell do I know about looking after kids?"

"Probably a whole lot more than me," Clint replies. "You're a kid. You understand how their brains work."

"Teenager," Kate corrects. "Teenager, Clint, there's a difference. I don't know what your baby Avengers are thinking."

Tony crows triumphantly once the whisk is in pieces across the floor. Bruce pauses his babbling with Thor to crawl over and start putting it back together. Tony's eyes narrow, and Clint sucks in a sharp breath, ready to leap between them, but Tony just hands Bruce the piece clutched in his fingers.

"Thank fuck," he breathes. Then, to Kate, he says, "Can't you just— come down and offer moral support or something?"

"Sorry." Kate doesn't sound sorry at all. "No can do. I've got a thing." Clint presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Good luck with the little monsters!"

She's gone before he can say anything else. Clint pulls the phone away from his ear and stares down at it, then looks over at the kids. Thor, Natasha and Steve all stare back.

Tony and Bruce are too busy with the whisk.

"We are so fucked," Clint says, and then, because the world has a cruel, cruel sense of humour, a whisk part snaps in Bruce's hand.

The piece that breaks off flies straight up at Bruce's face, catching him right on the cheek. Clint thinks maybe it draws blood, but Bruce is screaming before he can check, louder than Steve in the elevator, face screwed up tight and turning red.

And then, to Clint's absolute horror, the red starts looking distinctly green.

"Oh, come on," he murmurs. Bruce's tiny little baby body swells under his stupidly loose shirt. His hands are very definitely Hulk-green. "I just cannot catch a fucking break."

Clint catches Tony by the shirt and lifts him out of the way, dropping him on the kitchen table, then turns to do the same to the other three. Steve clings to Natasha as soon as Clint puts her down, but Natasha just keeps watching Bruce turn into the Hulk like it's the most fascinating thing ever. Tony's got a similar expression on his face.

Thor looks between the rest of them, then settles his gaze on Bruce, who has split his shirt and is crouching in the middle of the kitchen, now fully Hulked.

"Not good, so not good." After Loki, there really wasn't much call for the Avengers. Clint hasn't seen the Hulk at all since the Chitauri battle. He's got no idea how to handle this situation.

While significantly smaller — not even as tall as Clint — the baby Hulk still looks every bit as powerful as his adult counterpart. He eyes Clint, shifting slightly, and Clint tenses, ready to duck out of the way of an attack. There's a long, strained pause, and then the Hulk—

Sits down.

Just drops down into a seated position, shoulders slumped forwards.

Clint blinks.

"Bruce?" he tries. Baby Hulk doesn't react. "Uh, Hulk?" That gets baby Hulk to look up, head tilted to one side like a curious puppy. "Wow. Okay. You, uh— you alright there?"

Baby Hulk blinks back at Clint, then makes a sad, whining noise. His breath smells kind of foul, and Clint wrinkles his nose, pausing when baby Hulk gurgles at him.

He blows in Clint's direction again, actually blows. Clint pulls a face, and the same gurgle comes out. It sounds almost like laughter. Clint cocks his head. Baby Hulk copies him, grinning.

Clint barks out a laugh. "You just wanna play, don't you?"

"Play," baby Hulk repeats, and Clint laughs again. That makes baby Hulk laugh, too, a louder gurgling noise this time.

A stomp from the table draws Clint's attention back to the other kids. Once she's caught his eye, Natasha stamps again, and says, very clearly, "Play."

"Aww, hey, you babies can talk," Clint says, feeling absurdly proud.

Natasha gives him a filthy look. "Play."

Clint glances back at baby Hulk. It's probably an awful idea, letting the other four loose when the Hulk is out, but Thor has joined in Natasha's glare, and Clint figures it's only a matter of time before they're all yelling 'play' at him like some kind of demented pack of parrots. Besides, he's pretty sure Natasha and Thor can handle themselves in a fight, even when pint-sized. And he can always step in, if things start looking nasty.

"Alright." He picks Natasha up and bends to place her on the floor. "But the minute it starts getting too rough, you're all going back up on the table." Steve next, because he's watching Natasha with worry all over his face. "She can look after herself," Clint tells him, before ferrying Thor and then Tony down.

Predictably, as soon as he's on the ground, Tony goes straight for baby Hulk, clambering into his lap and chattering away in baby-talk at a hundred miles an hour. Baby Hulk prods at Tony's side with a giant finger, decides he isn't a threat, and proceeds to blow into Tony's face until Tony squeals.

It's not long before the others join Tony, and baby Hulk ends up with a lapful of baby Avengers. Clint plucks Bruce's phone back up from the table and snaps a bunch of photos, laughing quietly to himself. When the others return to their proper sizes — _if_ they return, which is a bridge Clint will cross when he has some back-up — he'll use the photos as props when retelling every embarrassing detail of this story. For now, he texts the best one — Natasha pulling at Tony's ear and Tony scrabbling at her shoulder to try and push her away, Thor with hair covering his face almost completely, and Steve perched on baby Hulk's shoulder with his Captain America face on — to Kate.

_Not such a disaster?_ he sends with it.

Kate sends him back a series of incoherent letters, and then, _Good job, daddy hawkeye_.

Clint snorts, slips the phone into his pocket, and collapses to the floor, leaning back against the wall with his legs stretched out towards the rest of his team. He's tired, which seems odd, but he figures looking after a bunch of kids must do that.

Across from him, Steve yawns. It sparks off a little chain reactions, each of the baby Avengers yawning in turn, even baby Hulk, which is simultaneously cute and scary. "Okay," Clint says, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracks satisfyingly. "Nap time, or whatever."

The kids don't even argue. Steve slides back down into baby Hulk's lap, next to Thor. Natasha and Tony, weirdly, curl up together by baby Hulk's leg. They're all asleep within minutes, except Natasha, who watches Clint with half-lidded eyes.

"This is not what I signed up for when I became an Avenger," Clint tells her, quietly. She opens her eyes just long enough to give him an unimpressed look, then closes them fully, turning slightly to bury her head in Tony's shoulder.

Clint pulls Bruce's phone out for another photo, because the scene is too cute to resist, and then drops his head back against the wall and lets himself fall asleep.

He wakes back up to a loud, "What the _fuck_?" and opens his eyes to see his team fully sized again, all dressed in just t-shirts — except Bruce, who is, understandably, naked — and piled on top of each other on the kitchen floor.

"Oh, hey," he says, grinning brightly. Five pairs of eyes fix on him. "Boy, do I have a story to tell you guys."


End file.
